


Frozen

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ficlet, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 14:13:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2028105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A different way for Bilbo to have been snatched up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frozen

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Drabble for letalkingmime’s “For a prompt, how does Bilbo caught in the snow (like a blizzard or buried under an avalanche?) being found and rescued by a big scary Smaug sound to you? Like Smaug would have to scoop him up and heat him up in any way he can think possible~” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

This is what he gets for being “brave.” All the other hobbits at the picnic were smart enough to leave it. It was— _was_ being the key word—a lovely, sunny day, with a fresh coat of soft snow on the moors. When the supplier’s pony trotted off of its own accord, they all said to leave it; it would find its way back, and who wants to spoil a nice social event chasing after animals?

Bilbo Baggins, apparently. Looking back, he’s not even sure _why_ he left, other than, of course, the baker’s daughter eyeing him nonstop in a rather uncomfortable manner. But that was certainly no excuse to get caught in a blizzard. 

A _blizzard_ , of all things. Hardly common whether for Hobbiton, but now that he’s so far out—is he so far out? He’s lost sight of most things—one can’t be sure. It’s an unpredictable hailstorm of howling wind and blustering flurries. The snow’s grown nearly a meter—he’ll drown in it if he’s not careful. What was once soft and bearable on the soles of his feet is now a prickling sheet of ice, burning with how very cold it is. He should’ve never stepped off the blanket. The pony’s long forgotten; there’s such a maelstrom around him that finding any one thing would be a hefty miracle. It’s every creature for themselves, and Bilbo is _trying_ to wade his way back to the village, where he can sprint up the hill, toss himself into Bag End, prop his feet up by the fire and not reemerge until spring.

At the moment, it’s looking less and less likely he’ll ever see that fire again. He’s lost track of how long he’s been out, and though he hopes the others would do _something_ , he doesn’t know what; looking for him would be as pointless as him looking for the pony. Everywhere he looks, it’s blinding white. The background’s all eaten up in the hazy mist of compound snow. Little flecks blown every which way obscure his vision, clinging to his face and gluing over his cheeks. His eyelashes are weighed down with snow, and his nose stings. Every breath is an irritant. His light cloak is being blown about too haphazardly to be any good, but the worst part of all is his feet, his horribly frozen over feet, which may as well be ice blocks. Assuming he somehow manages to survive, he’s certain he’ll never regain feeling in his toes. 

With every new step, Bilbo’s fear starts to spike. It’s proportional to the whether. Now that it’s so dismissal, his heart feels the same way: shuddering and vulnerable and scared. _Terrified_. For all he knows, he’s been walking in the wrong direction for hours. Maybe he’s father from Bag End than he’s ever been, and he can’t last like this—it’s a struggle to think, let alone to move. He can’t even feel the ground beneath the snow anymore to tell whether he’s on pavement or grass. He could be on a buried pond, about to make a wrong move and sink at any moment.

Bilbo wraps his hands around his mouth. He was using his arms to shield his torso, but that didn’t help. This doesn’t either. It traps in the scarce warmth of his breath, but that goes no farther than his chin, and the rest of him is prickling and turning a sickly white-blue. His joints are locking up, his limbs stiff. He won’t be able to hold his arms up for very long. This morning, he didn’t even know weather _could_ get this bad, and now it’ll likely be the end of him. 

He’s deathly afraid and wishes that he’d thought to make a will; as is, Lobelia’s probably going to make off with all his silverware, or worse, the house itself. ...And Bilbo’s going to die out in the middle of nowhere because of a serious lapse in sanity and the very sky plotting against him...

Somewhere along the line, his teeth stop chattering. Maybe they’ve frozen together. He makes a false step—there must be a branch, or a root, or a who-knows-what buried under all the white—and he topples forward, hitting the ground face-first. His arms aren’t working well enough to stop him. His nose rams right into the snow and his forehead slams against some ice and his legs twist in their flailing attempts to stop himself. Bilbo turns his cheek to the snow and gasps for breath, dizzy from the impact. It takes him a few seconds to regain his spotty sight. The ear against the ground can’t hear a thing. For a few moments, it’s all he can do to be conscious. 

Then he tries to get up and fails. 

He doesn’t try again. The first heave took enough out of him. There’s not much left. He wants to swear, _“Blasted weather,”_ but can’t seem to move his jaw. Unconsciousness claims him so gradually that he never becomes aware it’s happening, just loses himself into black against the white.

* * *

When he comes to, it’s only halfway, and the world is still a blurry thing. It’s all dark: a great shadow. He feels like gold is glittering, but he might just be seeing stars. He’s being rolled over onto his back by a large, solid thing, cylindrical and like steel, but Bilbo doesn’t know of anything that fits that description. He lands on his back and tries to make an, “Oomf,” noise, but his voice is hoarse and nonexistent.

He squints up through the sting of cold. Something’s standing over him; he can tell he’s being watched.

The thing lowers down, or a part of it does, and a burst of coiling, hot steam clouds over Bilbo’s face; he coughs and splutters and nearly chokes, eyes slamming shut. It seems to melt the snow right off him and singe the tips of his clothes and hair. 

When he forces his eyes open again, they’re burning. He can still make out what it is; it’s a creature; he can hear the breathing, and the steam is the creature’s breath. A great muzzle is looming over him, the snout wafting him in air so warm it might burst into flame. He manages to make out four legs, so far away from him that the creature must be massive, of unimaginable size, except that Bilbo must be imaging it, because there simply _is_ nothing that big. He tries to look down his body, unable to lift even as far as his elbows, and realizes there’s a tail. He hears the air beat. Wings? His imagination is, indeed, in overdrive. 

That, or there’s a dragon standing over him. And he’s going to die in a far more horrific way than being slowly given to the snow. Suddenly, drifting into the ice doesn’t seem so bad. Bilbo shuts his eyes, but when he opens them again, the creature’s still over him. 

His heartbeat, slowed by the cold, doubles. It beats so fast that he’s sure it’ll leap right out of his chest. Terror clouds his vision. It shifts its head, and he can see its great, golden eyes peering down at him. Bilbo opens his mouth to scream but doesn’t, more from fear than frozen lungs. He’s so _scared_. It swarms into him like a gnawing plague, and Bilbo, weak, surrenders to it. He slips back into unconsciousness, grateful for the peace.

* * *

And this time, he isn’t cold anymore.

This time, as he slowly wakes from a too-long slumber, it’s warmth that claws at him. So much of it, in fact, that at first, he thinks he’s fallen asleep by the fire. That must be it. Except that his clothes feel as though they’ve been carefully peeled away, and he doesn’t have any chairs quite this smooth. The surface his cheek and shoulder and side and thigh all lean against is perfectly even and almost violently hot: a wonderful relief.

He curls tighter to it, pressing his nose against the flat hide; it’s hard and steely, but soft like flesh. It smells deep and vaguely musty, and Bilbo has the sense of being wrapped tightly in someone’s arms, stroked and promised protection. 

He doesn’t want to wake up; it’s too pleasant to be here. But he wants to know what his sanctuary looks like, and so he lets his eyes squint open as his jaw stretches wide in a yawn. 

The thing he’s on is red, deep crimson, shimmering with a dazzling reflection, like a diamond lost in the light. When he shifts his legs, he realizes that the floor he’s on isn’t a floor at all, but a collection of small, hard disks; he looks down at his bed of coins. A few gemstones poke out in rich colours, but mostly, he’s sitting in a sea of gold. Bilbo’s confused, and he tiredly brushes some of the singed hair out of his eyes; his honey curls are matted with sweat. His whole body’s sweating. It doesn’t fit in, and it takes him another yawn and a few seconds of attempts to remember; he was out in the snow. He was out in the snow, and he fell, and he thought he would die, but then a dragon came to eat him. 

Bilbo goes tense as a board and turns, wide-eyed, to examine the length of the body he’s leaning against, propped between two large, multi-jointed legs, running down to sharp claws the size of Bilbo’s entire body, splayed out in the gold. The gold is all around him, and it seems to bounce back a distant firelight: just enough to see his doom, but not enough to see the edges of wherever they are, lost in the black. There’s a long, thick tail tossed in a lazy circle that traps Bilbo in; he’s in a dragon-borne citadel with scales on all sides. When the dragon shifts, the great, leathery wings folded across its spiky back catch the air and make a rumpling noise. The dragon is moving, and the coins shift around its belly, sliding over Bilbo’s skin. 

Its huge, marvelous head turns to look at him, on a neck so long that Bilbo can hardly conceive of it. The golden eyes that stare at him house a frightening intelligence, catch Bilbo in them, and he knows that escape is impossible. He doesn’t dare breathe. The dragon exhales, and a wave of heated mist ghosts over Bilbo’s body; he shivers and whimpers. 

He wants to ask not to be eaten, but he’s never done anything a tenth so brave in his life, and all he does is tremble and start to form water in the corners of his eyes. He scrunches them shut and thinks to at least request it happens fast; he doesn’t want to suffer. 

He’s nudged gently in the side, so much softer than he would think a _dragon_ capable. He expects to be crushed under its magnificence. Instead, it rubs its scaly face along his body. Its jaw opens, and he can smell its breath. Bilbo waits to die.

But the dragon purrs, in a voice that’s deep and lilting, _“Do not worry, little one. I know a precious treasure when I see it, and I will never let you grow cold again.”_


End file.
